


our days and nights are perfumed with obsession

by thrives



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Slow Burn, angst angst angst, like so slow that im literally gonna yell @ myself, occasional smut maybe if i feel like it, theyre in college fucking things up royally for themselves which is my writing kink so, title is from lorde's iconic banger "the louvre" go buy melodrama on itunes pls k thx
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-23 02:11:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14322255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrives/pseuds/thrives
Summary: He's tall and slender andlean, with pale, silken hair and mouthwateringly sharp cheekbones and a cold, haughty look in his eyes.What the literal fuck, she thinks, what thefuck.





	1. a rush at the beginning

Hermione Granger is not  _irrational_.

She may be stressed and high-strung and practically on the verge of a nervous breakdown, yes, but she's not  _irrational_. In her two years at Yale, she's had quite the assortment of roommates — some _considerably_ worse than others. If there had ever been more than a few dollars in her bank account after tuition and textbooks and tossers, she would have procured a nice, quiet apartment on the outskirts of campus.   

But she's learned to invest in earplugs and noise-cancelling headphones. She doesn't go marching into other people's rooms all at manners of the night, shrieking about her need for peace and quiet. She persists with as much civility as she can muster.

Here's the thing: it's her junior year. She isn't asking for much, and _yet_ ,by some cruel fluke of the universe, she's been forced to room with a girl who thinks it's acceptable to pour the remnants of her iced coffee into Hermione's potted plants and blast a terrifying country-pop mix that features Lana Del Rey, Keith Urban, and A$AP Rocky at all hours of the night. Her name is _Pansy Parkinson —_  a discount Rose McGowan type who wears _Daisy_ by _Marc Jacobs_ and has probably never seen a washing machine in her life, courtesy of Daddy's trust fund — and she waltzes in to immediately claim the left side of the room (the side with natural light and easy access to the bathroom), dressed to the nines in a puffy, neon pink Versace jacket and nine-inch heels,  hair clips pinning back the bangs of her sleek black bob.

Hermione is willing to let it go — that is, before Pansy brings in her little ensemble of vapid, gossipy girls with lacquered nails (and absolutely  _no_ idea of the meaning of the word silence) to "redecorate" or whatever the fuck they're calling _doing literally nothing worthwhile_  these days.

And look, Hermione is pretty sure even Jesus Christ himself wouldn't be able to put up with this amount of lunacy, but here she is, doing it, ignoring the crusty orange stains on her Econ notes and the din of Pansy's country music phase. So no, she's not irrational. She has the patience of a goddamn saint.

But she wasn't counting on some khaki-wearing, expresso-drinking, silver-tongued  _pretty-boy-slash-trust-fund-brat_  to pretty much drive her completely over the edge.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He moves into the room next door a few weeks later.

She isn't bothered by him at first. He slips in and out, a blur of dark clothing and pale hair, leaving his discarded Juul pods everywhere. Hermione sends out a viciously polite group email reminding everyone about Yale's no-tolerance policy, and no one responds.

Then she finds out he just _so_ happens to be Pansy's _childhood friend —_ out of the several billion men in the world, of course — and has the same absurd affinity for blasting loud, trashy music all night.

And maybe irrational isn't even the right word because it's an accumulation of a dozen different things: her ex's new (and significantly larger-chested than Hermione — which, okay,  _whatever_ — except that her ex always complained about her utter lack of breasts, so he can  _fuck off_ ) girlfriend, her econ grade that is dipping alarmingly towards an A-, Pansy and her clique, the fact that practically none of her real friends are around; it's everything she knows she should do and nothing that she wants to do; like, _god_ — she is literally the furthest thing from okay.

But Sunday nights aren't too bad, usually. Things are quiet. She'll make herself a cup of tea and nestle into bed with a good book. 

On this particular Sunday night, though, the din is incredible. Hermione can barely hear herself think over the screech of what must be a thousand speakers blasting trap music that only a certain specific brand of white boys listen to. Pansy — thank heavens — has gone out, presumably to a club or a bar or whatever inane nighttime activity she indulges in. 

 And suddenly it's just all too much.

Surely, she thinks, it wouldn't be unreasonable to ask him to lower the volume.

By the time she has gotten to her feet, walked to the door, opened it, entered the hallway, and stopped at his door, she's livid. It's the middle of the night and Pansy's little minion is playing some stupid song with misogynistic lyrics about women being sluts and bitches and she's  _done_. This isn't irrational. This is perfectly  _acceptable._

She's knocking on the door primly, reciting her angry diatribe in her head to make sure it sounds intelligent, when, abruptly, the door swings open and hits her in the head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You _imbecile_ ," she hisses at the lanky, trembling boy rummaging through the refrigerator for an ice pack. She touches her hand to the swelling bump on the left side of her skull and winces. Her aggressor actually looks quite normal, with sandy brown hair and freckles and a pleasant enough smile — though the smile itself is long gone.

The room, on the other hand, is a mess. There are wrappers and shreds of paper and empty cups lolling around on the floor. The walls are grimy and the furniture has a film of dust so thick it terrifies her slightly. Hermione doesn't think this room has ever seen a bottle of Windex or a sponge or even a washcloth. It reeks of stale, beery sweat and pungent weed and rotting garbage; there is a large, suspiciously red stain across the dirty beige couch; movies like  _Fight Club_  and  _King Pin_  and  _True Romance_  stacked haphazardly across a rickety coffee table; it's like Cinderella's fairy godmother whipped out her wand and  _bippity-bobbity-booed_  the definition of a man-cave to life.

Even without the dull throbbing in her temple or the pool of vomit she nearly steps in, it feels like the entrance to hell — or maybe just a male dorm room — they practically amount to the same thing anyway. There's a pretentious piece of black-and-white photography hanging on the wall: a skateboarder with his head between his knees, eyes bulging out of his sockets as he soars across the concrete. As if things couldn't possibly get worse, there are a couple broken iPhones on the floor, screens shattered, and one has a Fortnite sticker taped to the back.

"I'm really sorry about that," he mumbles, tossing her an ice pack. "I didn't know—"

"—Why on earth are you blasting music at this hour, couldn't you, oh, I don't know, go out—"

 "—We were having a party, okay—"

"—Don't you realize  _other_ people live here too? People who need to sleep—"

"—Look, I said I was sorry, alright—"

"—I thought frat boys had their own houses for a _reason_ —"

"—Honestly, chill out, it's all—"

"—Anyway, I didn't come here to speak to you, Oklahoma Ken doll, I came to speak with the owner of this dump," she snaps.

 "Too bad," the boy says nervously, "because he's not here."

"Why isn't he at his own party?" she asks, only a tiny bit curious.

He shrugs. "He does what he wants."

Hermione huffs. "That's _bullshit_ and you know it."

Malibu Barbie boy looks confused. "What..."

She hears the door swing open before he does, and whips around so quickly her neck cracks. A giggling girl with a red skirt and nipple pasties stumbles in, hands palming the chest of —  _him_.

Seeing him clearly for the first time is strange after the things she'd imagined in her head—a nasty redneck or a pimply geek or a thick-headed jock — and it feels like a fever dream, shimmering and liquid and hot. He's tall and slender and  _lean,_ with pale, silken hair and mouthwateringly sharp cheekbones and a cold, haughty look in his eyes.

What the literal fuck, she thinks, what the  _fuck_.

His mouth is catching on the girl's mouth and he's murmuring something very intimate into the curve of her neck and Hermione feels suddenly like she's intruding on something. The other boy has wisely disappeared, and for a brief moment, she wants to do the same.

But she came here to confront this asshole, so she clears her throat. " _Ahem._ "

 He doesn't move an inch. The girl, however, jerks her head up and sees Hermione (who, in her sweatpants-wearing, bleary-eyed, bare-feet-and-flared-nostrils-at-midnight glory, looks a great deal like a pissed girlfriend from an outsider's perspective) and says, "Holy shit."

She backs away from Pansy's nasty, outrageously handsome friend—therefore, very much Hermione's enemy — and holds her hands up in the air. "I'm sorry, I had no idea—"

"No, no, no," Hermione says quickly. "I'm not—we're not dating. I'm actually from next door."

 The blond _asshat_ interjects smoothly. "Then what the fuck are you doing here?"

"To complain," she snaps. His eyes survey her coolly, running from her neck to her breasts to her legs in a matter of seconds. It's  _clinical,_ like he's examining a piece of lint on his cashmere sweater.

"Then go find a therapist," he says. His hand snakes around the girl's waist, pulling her in.

Hermione's cheeks heat, but she stands her ground.

"I'm only going to fucking say this once," she grits out, planting her hands on her hips and straightening her spine. "I don't give a  _fuck_ about you. I care about myself and my grades and if you blast your absolutely atrocious music in the middle of the night one more time, party or not, I will personally cut your balls off and pin them to the wall. Good  _night_."

 He looks supremely amused — not at all frightened by her speech. "I do as I please."

Hermione marches up to him and says in her frostiest voice, "Not anymore." Maybe she's imagining it, but... there's a tension between them, a tautness that almost  _sparks_ —and then, he  _grins_.

"Off you go now, darling," he drawls.

She sniffs in disgust and draws back. Gives the other girl a withering glance. Says dryly, "Have fun."

 

 

* * *

 

  

When she leaves the room, holding her nose and seething, she hears the girl say, "Are we still gonna—"

A breathless moan follows. Hermione rolls her eyes into the back of her head and slams the door shut. Once safely back inside her dorm, she washes her feet and shucks off her clothes and climbs into bed, the cool sheets doing nothing to help the heat of her skin. She suddenly feels embarrassed and stupid and humiliated — standing there like a maniac, burning with anger while he remained cool and collected —  _whatever._

Whatever.

She doesn't care in the least bit. She's actually going to make a difference in the world while that idiot knocks up some girl and gets married and becomes a alcoholic with a beer gut and a scraggly mustache. She is going to help people. He is going to ruin lives. There's a  _difference_. So he can grin now. She'll be grinning later.

 Pansy bursts in and shrieks, "Everyone's saying you fucked  _Drake_!" Or at least, that's what it sounds like. Pansy is slurring her words badly.

"I knew it! I knew you were getting some," Pansy says, and passes out on the floor. Hermione covers her with a blanket and wishes she could plug her ears to drown out the music that is  _still_ playing next door.

You're on, you pointy blond brat, she thinks, you're  _on_.


	2. we get caught up just for a minute

 

 

"—Potter. Unfortunately I'm not at home right now but leave a message and I'll get back to you—"

Hermione hangs up and listens to the dial tone click off, wondering why even Harry  _— Harry_ , who spends his entire life working at pet shelters and helping old ladies cross the street, who would rather organize a beach clean-up than go out for drinks — has more of a life than she does. She hasn't had any real human interaction in weeks (apart from Pansy, who definitely isn't human) and she's pretty fucking miserable.

She tries texting Ginny, but Ginny isn't much help.

 

smartass™:  _feeling so down lately idk why_

smartass™:  _wanna hang soon?_

scarlet letter:  ** _go get laid sis_**

scarlet letter:  ** _new dick will change ur whole perspective_**

scarlet letter:  _ **promise**_

scarlet letter: _ **we can't hang bc im too busy GETTING DICK**_

smartass™: _im,,,,,,,,_

smartass™:  _ok_

scarlet letter: _ **why do u always have to be so skeptical**_

scarlet letter: _ **u know its ok 2 have fun every now n then right???????**_

 smartass™:  _i DO have fun_

smartass™: _lots of fun_

smartass™:  _learning IS fun_

scarlet letter: _ **u sound like my kindergarten teacher**_

 

 So Hermione digs through her closet for anything remotely sexy to wear and finds a slinky little black dress that looks like it definitely doesn't belong to her and thinks,  _fuck it_. The zipper digs into her spine and her hips look oddly flat; she slicks her hair back and tries on Pansy's burgundy lipstick and Pansy's black boots and makes it about five steps out of the door before she hears a plaintive sigh and the click of a lock.

"I don't understand," a sweet, girlish voice says helplessly into the corridor. "I'm in a sorority. I'm not, like, a  _loser_."

"Just—" A moment of silence. The unhappy couple come into view: a wide-eyed brunette and Pointy Blond Asshole. Oh, for Christ's sake. Hermione backs away, pressing herself against the wall and wishing with a fierce desperation that she was invisible. "—fucking go, alright?"

"I don't understand—"

"Look," he says coldly. "You're not on my level. I don't want to be seen with you. Got it?"

Hermione nearly huffs with outrage, clapping a hand over her mouth and fuming silently. The sheer _nerve_ of this obnoxious, entitled, sadistic  _weasel_ — as if his arrogance and callousness make for alluring traits. She'd like nothing more than to just sock him in the face, watch the blood trickle down his cupid's bow and into his sullen,  _absurdly_  sensuous mouth, wipe that sneer off his aristocratic features. He reminds her of the seventh grade boys who would poke fun at her protruding front teeth and bushy hair, the ones who reveled in tearing her down. He reminds her of everything she stands against and everything she stands for and she — she  _can't_.

Because everything about him — about this — is a contradiction.

"Sorry," the girl murmurs, and she's looking at him with pleading eyes, wide, gentle eyes, and he's disdainful, aloof, supremely unconcerned.

"Lose my number and forget my name," he says sharply. 

The girl says, "Draco...please."

_Draco._

"You'll figure it out," he says, and closes the door behind him.

Hermione doesn't move. She lingers and watches his rejectee blow a strand of honeyed brown hair out of her eyes and say into the silence, "Mother _fucker_." She watches as the girl shrugs her tanned shoulders in defeat and walks to the elevator. She wonders how someone could say nothing and feel so much and she thinks that maybe hatred isn't a strong enough word for what she feels.

For Draco — and for herself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

smartass™:  _pansy u know that guy from next door right_

smartass™:  _pansy will you answer me_

smartass™: _ur on that phone 24/7 come ON_

paris "pansy" hilton:  ** _who_**

paris "pansy" hilton:  ** _like the one ur fucking or??_**

smartass™:  _no_

smartass™: _definitely not_

paris "pansy" hilton:  ** _so draco?_**

paris "pansy" hilton: _ **yea we go way back**_

paris "pansy" hilton: _ **our parents were friends since forever**_

paris "pansy" hilton: _ ** **we dated for a sec in high school but it was obvi not meant to be****_

paris "pansy" hilton: _ ** **so do u wanna fuck him or something****_

paris "pansy" hilton: _ ** ** **bc im pretty sure theres a waiting list******_

paris "pansy" hilton: _ ****its impossible to wanna fuck someone uve known since u were in diapers****_

paris "pansy" hilton:  _ **but objectively??? he's hot**_

smartass™: _so do u consider him to be a good person_

smartass™:  _like_   _someone who has a shred of common decency_

paris "pansy" hilton: _ **i mean he can be a jerk but he cares about his friends**_

paris "pansy" hilton: _ **r u pissed bc he said something about feminism**_

 smartass™:  _no idk_

smartass™: _i don't trust him and i don't like that he's right next door_

smartass™:  _personal feelings aside, he blasts music all day and night_

paris "pansy" hilton: _ **that's college babe!**_

paris "pansy" hilton: _****get it????????****_

paris "pansy" hilton: _ ** **like that meme****_

paris "pansy" hilton: _ ** ** **"that's pussy babe" ???? an iconic meme******_

paris "pansy" hilton: _ ** ** ** **u r SO disappointing********_

paris "pansy" hilton:  _ ** ** ** ** **whats the point of having a brain if u dont know any memes**********_

paris "pansy" hilton: _************i give up************_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 The thing is, Hermione doesn't  _look_  intimidating. She's irritatingly short; her features are brittle and delicate and  _tiny;_ she pouts too much, pouts when she's bored or tired or frustrated; wears lip balm and jeggings and takes yoga classes — a sort of studious, demure beauty that attracts overbearing jocks and angry anti-feminists and the occasional intellectual.

People underestimate her. Often. Nearly always. She hates that idea, that she can't be both intelligent and pretty, that those things don't come hand in hand. And so when people look through her — in the way that Draco did so easily — it infuriates, invalidates, threatens.  _I'm more than just my body_ , she wants to say sometimes.  _Yeah, I have a vagina. I also have a brain. Believe it or not, those things aren't mutually exclusive._

Maybe it was Cormac who made her appear so fragile and underwhelming. He was all brawny overprotectiveness and smarmy charm; she was always just the little doll on his arm. Dating him for so many years, Hermione lost parts of herself. The parts she didn't like very much, her stubbornness and neuroticism and goody-goody-two-shoes attitude, parts that defined her, parts that made her Hermione and not the girl standing at Draco's door. She regrets Cormac now, regrets the later years where she tried so  _fucking_  hard to fix things, just because he was the first guy she'd ever loved and that had to mean something, right, and she wasn't the girl to give up so easily, and then, just as quickly, maybe even quicker, her teenage years were gone and he was with another girl.

So she spent her entire summer trying to reclaim the things she'd lost. She wishes she hadn't given him everything. Her first kiss, her first dance, her virginity (social construct put in place to restrict girls from embracing their sexuality, she knows, she knows, but there's always something about that  _first_  time), her  _first first first_  and it's always going to hurt her heart a little bit.

He's always going to hurt a little bit.

She knows it's euphoric recall, but these days all she can remember are the good times. He loved her, despite the fact that she's crazy and volatile and bitter and broken and never quite there, he loved her and she's terrified she'll never find anyone who loves her the way he did. Without reason, because they were young and happy, simply and beautifully and wonderfully.

 Because Hermione isn't easy to love, no, and who would want her now, who would want this wreck of a girl?

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She stalks Draco's social media: basically, his Instagram, because he doesn't have any other forms that she can find. He's a Malfoy, and the name rings a bell but she can't put her finger on it. He's got around 6000 followers on a private account, which, okay, why would it be private if he has 6000, but  _whatever_. His profile picture is a group of guys with blurry faces against a dark background and she can't even make out which one is him. His bio reads his name and his bio says,  _not albino._ Hermione snorts to herself and snaps a screenshot, texting it to Ginny.

 

smartass™:  _look at the jerk's insta_

smartass™:  _the one who lives next door_

scarlet letter:  ** _ew_**

scarlet letter:  ** _white boys can choke_**

smartass™: _ur literally white gin_

scarlet letter:  ** _yeah but im not a fuckboi ewwww_**

 

 

He only has three posts. The earliest one is from July and he's sitting on the steps of some random skate park, a beautiful girl with choppy blonde bangs perched on his lap and a handsome, dark-skinned boy smoking in the corner. The caption reads,  _day glo_. The second one is a video of an ocean view, sunlight glittering on the water like diamonds. No caption, but almost a thousand comments. A user named **daph_green**  says,  _soooooo fun!!! love u hottie!_ The third one is a birthday post for a guy named Theo and Draco's wearing a tux and Hermione refuses to drool all over herself. The caption says,  _theodore ur finally 21 we can drink legally bro [smirking emoji]_. 

 Hermione logs out of the fake account she made just for the purpose of stalking him and decides that she hates him and his perfect life and she's going to do everything in her power to make him miserable.

Yeah.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

So Hermione logs onto Amazon and orders three multi-purpose, surround-sound speakers, then goes to iTunes and immediately buys every classical song she can think of.

Yeah.

 _Miserable_.

 

 


	3. but lover you're the one to blame

 

Draco retaliates with  _heavy_ _metal_.

Hermione borrows Pansy's Taylor Swift country CD. He tries Dubstep. She switches to Attila; he puts on _"Friday"_ by _Rebecca Black_. He buys bigger speakers. She invests in earplugs and turns on Evanescence. Pansy says, "Fuck this, I really can't take this anymore," and goes to stay with Daphne — "Until your stupid ego contest is over." Weirdly enough, Hermione almost kind of misses her, or, at least, misses her cooking. After Draco plays an especially awful rendition of "Barbie Girl" on repeat, they both get warnings from the dorm administration. He sticks a card under her door that reads,  _People Who Listen To Classic Music Suck_. When she opens it, it plays a screechy violin cover of the Mii Channel music. She laughs a little bit at it, then catches herself.

 She plays "Africa" by Toto all night (at a lower volume, but close by the spot where she predicts the beds are) and she can practically hear the groans from next door. "It's gonna take some time to do the things we never had," she hears someone humming in the laundry room. "Hurry boy, she's waiting there for you..."

She gets one of those cards, records "She Thinks My Tractor Is Sexy" by Kenny Chesney, and writes,  _Play this during sex. 10/10 results guaranteed. 93% say it's better than Viagra (and I think you could use both)._

Draco throws a party that night, and at around one in the morning she wakes up to hear, "NICE LEGS, DAISY DUKES, MAKES A MAN GO (OBNOXIOUS WOLF WHISTLE), THAT'S THE WAY THEY ALL COME THROUGH, LIKE LOW-CUT SEE THROUGH SHIRTS THAT MAKE YA (OBNOXIOUS WOLF WHISTLE)."

Two days later, the note under her door says,  _Either we get arrested or we stop. Just get the feeling a criminal record isn't your thing._

So Hermione stops, but not without one last laugh: she pays Malibu Barbie Boy (who just so happens to be the Theodore of the birthday post) thirty bucks to change every song on his Spotify playlists to "Potential Break-Up Song" and lets the chips fall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She still absolutely hates his guts and thinks he's a massive asshole who treats girls like shit.

But — but.

He's the tiniest bit charming, barely, infinitesimally hilarious, and she's — she doesn't _care_.

It's not like this is an absurd way of _flirting_. No. No way.

He's not her _type_. Like, yeah, okay, he just so happens to be all tall and slender and _silky_ , practically _unreal_ , and he's sort of amusing in a atypical, not-so-frat-boy-ish-after-all sense, and she kind of enjoyed their little music battle, and she's rejected guys harshly in the past too, but — but.

She's _Hermione Granger._

She's not irrational.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Pansy returns with Chinese takeout and says, "So you like him. Like, _my_ Draco? The one who cried in the fourth grade after Greg called him a ferret? The one who stepped on my toes at our seventh grade dance and spilled punch on my dress? The one who—"

"No," Hermione interrupts without looking up from her Econ notes, rummaging through her bag for a highlighter. Somewhere along the line, Pansy has gone from impossible to tolerable. When she's not with the clique of shrieking harpies, she's actually kind of cool. Not that Hermione would ever let Pansy know that. Pansy is easy to detest on paper, but in reality she's almost _endearing_ , nosing her way into Hermione's life with that flair for the dramatic that Hermione enjoys more than she should.

Pansy rolls her eyes and says, "Shut the _fuck_ up."

"He's an awful human being," Hermione says quite sincerely. "I really have no interest in him."

" _Can_ be," Pansy corrects, plopping down on the couch and fiddling with the laces of her thigh-high boots. "And besides, everyone's awful sometimes."

"Not like that."

" _Yes_ , like that. You're no saint yourself." Pansy stretches her legs out across the coffee table, then says, "Anyways, there's a party tomorrow night and I've decided you're coming because you have no social life and it's pretty pathetic and I can practically hear you begging for my help."

Hermione laughs and replies, "I'm good."

"Didn't ask," Pansy says. "Get an outfit. You're going. Who knows, you might even bump into Draco."

"Now you've convinced me," Hermione says wryly.

"Knew it!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

cho(e):  ** _mione this is gonna sound crazy but i think u have a doppelganger_**

cho(e):  ** _im @ this party and i s2g i just saw a girl_**

cho(e):  ** _who looks just like you_**

cho(e):  ** _at first i thought it was u actually_**

cho(e):  ** _but then i was like nah mione doesn't come to these things_**

cho(e):  ** _noah fence it's just not ur crowd i feel_**

cho(e):  ** _but anyways text me back pls bc this is hella weird_**

cho(e):  ** _she has ur hair and eyes but she's wearing this tight sequined dress_**

cho(e): ** ** _she looks hot tbh i'll send u a pic_****

cho(e):  _ ** ** ** **it's kinda blurry sorry********_

cho(e):  ** _[image.jpg]_**

cho(e):  ** _she's with PANSY?????? ur roommate???????_**

cho(e):  ** _wtf this is so weird_**

cho(e):  ** _do u have a fucking twin u didnt tell me abt i s2g_**

cho(e): ** _**r u not answering bc i stood u up for our study session**_**

cho(e): ** _tell me u wouldn't stand me up for mcfreaking cedric diggory_**

cho(e): ** _the guy's a_** ** _certifiable greek god_**

cho(e): _ ** ** **ok malfoy just carried her out no way is it u******_

 

 

* * *

**_**_**** _ ** _ **

 

 Hermione's dress is too tight and the label on the back of her neck itches and she wishes she had thought to cut it off. It's Pansy's, unworn and insanely expensive. This party is _so_ not her scene. The host is playing old Miley songs that everyone somehow knows all the words to, there are those cliche teen movie red solo cups all over the place, and Pansy has abandoned her to go make out with some Cedric Diggory lookalike. She's standing in the kitchen, virtually sensing her hair frizz, sipping some water that might be mistaken for vodka if she's lucky, and someone says, "Wanna hook up?"

She turns, startled, only to see a gangly, freckled redhead cornering some pretty blonde with an oily grin. Sighing, she pulls herself up and sits on the counter. She's short enough that her legs dangle over the side, and she swings them back and forth, feeling somewhat like a child. She's already had two beers and being the lightweight that she is, the world is beginning to tip upside down. 

 _Water_ , she thinks dimly. _I need water._

She sees a brilliant blur of blue dancing just outside of her peripheral vision, and she's reaching for it, oh, _oh_ , where did it go? "Come back," she says.

"This is unbelievable," Draco says. He's in front of her. He looks so  _good_. He's wearing a long-sleeved, dark blue sweater and his hair is messy and his lips are puffy and swollen. He looks _freshly fucked_. "Pansy brings _you_ to a random house party and leaves you in the middle of the kitchen drinking—is that _vodka_? Irresponsible isn't even the right word."

"Hey," Hermione says defensively. "She cooks."

Draco leans down, a lock of fine blond hair falling in front of those warm grey eyes. "I cook too," he says, the corners of his mouth turning up. "I can cook better than Pansy. And I take care of my friends too."

She prods at his chest, shaking her head. "You do _not_. You don't take care of your girls."

"My hookups?" he asks. "No one takes care of their hookups, Meg Murry. But I suppose you wouldn't know either way." Hermione pouts. His lips are far too close to her lips and his hands are planted on the counter, only inches away from her hips. Suddenly, inexplicably, she wants to drape her arms around his neck and kiss him. "I don't even like _A Wrinkle In Time_ ," she gripes.

He gasps mockingly. "Really? Me neither. Maybe we _do_ have something in common."

"No," she says. She feels dizzy. He's so tall and his shoulders are so broad compared to her, she almost feels _dainty_. It's not like with Cormac, though. Less of a power imbalance and more of a perfect fit. No. No, no, no. She cannot think these thoughts. Not about _him_.

"I hate you," she says. His eyes are the clearest grey she's ever seen in her life, and she's never thought much of grey before, but now it seems like the prettiest color in the world. "The feeling is mutual," Draco replies. The corner of his mouth is twitching and his eyes are glinting with humor. "I think I need to take you home, darling."

"I'm not a virgin, you prick," she snaps.

"Okay," he says. He looks like he's holding back a laugh. "That's nice."

"Stop looking at me like I'm a virgin then!"

"I consider every girl who hasn't slept with me a virgin."

"Get over yourself," she manages. The world is spinning and he's the only focal point.

He leans down and murmurs in her ear, "Get under me first."

"What if I want to be on top?" she retorts without thinking, then blushes furiously.

"I think we could negotiate something," he says.

"I would never touch you anyway," Hermione spits, suddenly infuriated. Her drunk self isn't her favorite self: her mood swings are unparalleled. He laughs, supremely unaffected. "I'll quote you in our vows. Besides, you're the one who got 'you're not living til you're living with me, you're not winning til you're winning me' stuck in my head, hmm?"

"I bet you'd forget my birthday, jerkface."

"Not after listening to that damn song about three hundred times, _sweetheart_."

She nearly falls forward and he steadies her. "Whoa, whoa. Come on," he says. "Can you stand? No. Okay. Come here."

Draco scoops her into his arms and she says weakly, "I can walk."

"I don't think so," he says. She leans her head against his warm, hard chest and pretends not to enjoy the feeling of his arms around her. He smells so fucking nice and she's literally seeing stars when someone goes, "Oh my god, is that Hermione  _Granger_?"

The last thing she feels is Draco brush her hair away from her forehead. The last thing she hears him say is, "Her name is _Hermione_?" 

 

 

* * *

 

  

paris "pansy" hilton:  ** _where tf r u_**

paris "pansy" hilton:  ** _i leave for fucking five minutes_**

paris "pansy" hilton:  ** _why do i have ten texts from draco_**

paris "pansy" hilton:  ** _HOLYYYYYYYYYYYY FUCKINGGGGGGGGGGGG SHITTTTTTTTTTTTTTT_**

paris "pansy" hilton: ** ** _how long r u gonna pretend u hate him_****

paris "pansy" hilton:  _ ** ** ** **well i gotta say, there's nothing quite like hate-fucking********_

paris "pansy" hilton:  ** _ew thinking about u two together is simultaneously cute and gross_**

paris "pansy" hilton:  ** _can i be maid of honor at ur wedding_**

 


	4. all that you're doing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys thanks for sticking with this story (i know it's kind of wack fdhfdhssdj) but yeah, comments feed my starving children and keep me off the streets so pls pls comment if u liked <3

 

Hermione wakes up with a pounding headache in an unfamiliar bedroom. The bedsheets are green, the drapes are green, the carpet is a slightly darker shade of green. Sunlight is streaming through the windows; she winces and shuts her eyes. "Is it Saint Patrick's Day?" she wonders aloud. Surely Pansy wouldn't redecorate _overnight_.

Suddenly she realizes that the bed is facing the opposite direction and there's a baggy blue jersey with  _MALFOY_ stamped across the back dangling from the closet door that is disarmingly ajar. Hermione blinks, then checks to see what she's wearing — a dress and underwear, thank god — far more calmly than she'd ever thought she was capable of. Pushing back the comforter, she stands and runs a hand through the tangled knots in her hair. She isn't freaking out, exactly. It's more of a _how-the-fuck-did-i-get-here_ , _my-head-hurts-terribly_ kind of thought process.

"Late night?" someone teases from the doorway. It's _Draco_. He's not wearing a shirt. She averts her eyes and tugs her dress lower down her legs self-consciously. "What happened?" she asks instead of retorting, aware that this scene is all too cliche, the words too perfectly staged.

"You got drunk at the party, Pansy wanted to stay the night with whoever so she begged me to take you home, and you didn't have your key on you when we got here."

"God, those keys are _so_ expensive to replace," she says, because what else is there to say?

"Yeah," Draco says, uninterested. "Wanna get out of here?"

" _What_?"

He shakes his head and she meets his eyes for the first time. She notices the pink color blossoming in his cheeks only a little triumphantly. Her eyes travel from broad shoulders — not of her own volition — to sculpted abs and a line of wiry hair that dips below his gray sweatpants, and _jesus_ , what does he _eat_ to look like that, because as far as she knows, his diet is solely protein shakes and junk food, not even counting the excessive partying and drinking — and she hates him for having those absurdly _perfect_ genes, hates his stupidly _perfect_ face and _chiseled_ torso and  _wet-dream-derived-from-a-romance-novel_  mouth, a mouth that she'd never, ever in a million years admit she's hooked on, because she's not into him, she doesn't _like_ him, no.

"Not like that," he says awkwardly. "Like, do _you_ want to leave my dorm right now? Please?"

"Yeah, okay. I, er—" she waves her hands around the room. "If I left anything, just, uh, give it to Pansy."

"Don't think you left anything, sweetheart," he says, the playfulness returning to his voice. "Except your dignity."

"Parties are _so_ not my scene," Hermione murmurs. "I'm sorry if I said anything rude or, you know, worse."

"Like when you said you wanted to be on top during sex?"

She can feel her cheeks turning bright red. She buries her face in her hands and he chuckles. "Thank you for taking me home," she says finally. "I'll find my way out, I guess."

He sighs, the ends of his hair damp and golden. "Why do you always have to make me feel like the bad guy?"

"You _are_ the bad guy," she says, not even sure she means it anymore.

"And the Big Bad Wolf huffed and puffed and blew the house down," Draco says, and holds out his head. "Come on, Little Red."

She takes his hand, but not without one final remark. She's a _Granger_ , after all. The last word means everything. "You know those are two different stories, right?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

smartass™:  _quick question_

smartass™:  _if u hold hands with someone and they interlace ur fingers together_

smartass™: _that's considerably more intimate than just holding hands_

smartass™: _right?????????_

__smartass™:_ ok thanks _

scarlet letter:  ** _ya i guess_**

scarlet letter:  ** _idk holding hands isn't really my thing_**

scarlet letter:  _ **kind of vanilla**_

scarlet letter: _ **but it's cute ur getting worked up over it**_

smartass™: _fuck u_

smartass™:  _im sorry i appreciate the small things in life_

smartass™: _don't fucking say it_

scarlet letter: _ **MICROPENIS**_

scarlet letter: _ **hahahahahhaahhaahha**_

scarlet letter: _ **u fell headfirst into that one my good sis**_

 smartass™:  _BYE_

 

 

* * *

 

 

They aren't friends.

They are enemies, either.  

 They're —  _yeah_. 

And he's oddly sweet _to_ her, and she's oddly soft _for_ him, and it's really fucking strange, because Draco Malfoy isn't _sweet_ and Hermione Granger isn't _soft_ and somehow they bring out the worst — the _best_ — in each other.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cho Chang — kind, generous, lovely Cho Chang, who always gives her friends and enemies the benefit of the doubt — is laughing her ass off at _Hermione_. "That was you?" she chokes out.

Hermione crosses her arms over her chest, feeling oddly offended. "So what? I was drunk."

" _So what_ _?_ Now everyone on the damn campus thinks you're fucking." Cho straightens up, dark eyes narrowing. "Well?"

"Well, what?" Hermione repeats, wishing she'd never fucking trusted Pansy Parkinson in the first place.

"Well, are you?"

"Am I what?"

Cho smirks, dimples appearing on both cheeks. God, she's so _cute_. It pisses Hermione off. "Don't play dumb. Are you messing around with him?"

"No!" Hermione nearly shrieks, looking outraged. "What— _why_ —no, I'd think _you_ of all people would know me well enough to—"

"—He's cute," Cho interrupts breezily. "I wouldn't blame you."

"He's—he's..." Hermione sputters, "awful, arrogant, condescending, a total prick, entitled, wears _khakis—"_

"Oh my god, Cedric wears them too. I've been begging him for  _months_ now, do they really think it's attractive to wear booger-colored pants, honestly—oh! You're trying to distract me from the situation at hand."

"There _is_ no situation. I promise."

Cho flicks a shimmering strand of black hair over her shoulder and studies Hermione intently. "Do you want there to be?"

"What I want," says Hermione, "is to study for this chapter test and forget that Draco Malfoy ever existed."

Cho doesn't argue, but she murmurs _uh-huh_ under her breath. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hermione bumps into Cormac at the grocery store and it's — it's _anticlimactic_. The opposite of any livid collision or tearful apology that she might have imagined. She's wearing a neat tartan sweater and blue leggings, her hair scooped up into a bun, eyes bleary from lack of sleep, combing through the cereal aisle for the whole-wheat, gluten-free raisin bran she loves and she hears someone say, "Hermione?"

It takes her a few moments to fully turn around. "Hello," she says. Tries not to blink at the sight of her ex-boyfriend. Cormac looks  _healthy._ His cheeks are ruddy and his wheat-colored hair is curling at the nape of his neck and he's grinning a bit sheepishly.  

"How're you doing?" he asks.

"Good," she responds, her throat suddenly dry. He looks almost _bashful_. "What about you?"

"Really good," Cormac says. "I'm—I'm glad you're doing alright."

She gives in and smiles, a little wistfully. "I'm glad you're doing okay, too."

"Right, well." He scratches his head. "Have a good one, 'Mione."

"You too!" she says brightly, and suddenly remembers she's wearing the pearl earrings he gave her for their fourth anniversary, earrings she kept solely out of sentimentality.

And then he's rounding the corner and she's staring at the ground and trying to remember not to cry.

 

 

* * *

 

 

pottery barn: ** _h_ _ **e** y mione_**

pottery barn:  ** _sorry it's been a while_**

pottery barn:  ** _i guess we've both been busy but i just wanted to check up on you_**

pottery barn: _ **hope everything's going well @ yale**_

pottery barn: **_so anyway_ ** _ **h** eard u've been going out w/ a certain ferret _****

pottery barn:  _ ** **pls confirm that this is untrue****_

smartass™:  _UNTRUE_

smartass™: _who told u this harry????????_

pottery barn: _**thank god. gin was worried**_

smartass™: _m angry that u all think so little of my tastes_

pottery barn:  ** _no offense hermione but u did date cormac mclaggen for ages_**

pottery barn:  ** _u can't exactly defend urself_**

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Hey, Granger," Draco says, catching up with her on the way to the elevator. He's flushed, slightly out-of-breath.

She sighs. "Yes?"

"D'you think it'd be in bad taste if I dated my ex's little sister?" Hermione stops in her tracks and he nearly trips over her feet. Her mind spins. She'd never taken Draco for the kind of guy who _dated_. He reeked of commitment issues and one-night-stands. Not girlfriends. Certainly not girlfriends who happened to be an ex's little sister. 

"Why are you asking me, Draco?" she says.

"Well, you're the most uppity, _adheres-to-her-moral-core_ person I know. Thought I'd start from the bottom and work my way up."

"You're planning to date her? _You_?" She doesn't know why it comes out so hostile.

A faint blush tinges his cheeks and he looks down, shifting his shoulders. When he looks back up at her, he almost looks shy. "Look, I really, really like her."

"And she likes you back?"

"Yes. She's not just—well, y'know—"

"Another fling?" Hermione offers coldly.

"Yeah, that. She's different. I actually want to be with her. All the way."

"Look," Hermione says, looking up at him. His gray eyes are clear and bright and _hopeful_. Something fractures deep within her, and she doesn't know _why_ , because she doesn't give a fuck about him, and she couldn't care less about what he does, or who he's in love with — but then why, why, _why_ does it hurt to look at him? "I don't really care, Draco. As someone who's apparently on the bottom of your list, I'd say go for it. Do whatever the hell you want. I. Do. Not. Care."

The elevator dings. He looks bemused. She steps inside. He doesn't follow. "Have a nice day," she says briskly, and Draco holds her gaze. "Sounds like you care," he says, right before the doors slam shut.

She realizes too late that the normal reaction to such a statement would have been a bit different.


	5. can you hear the violence?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh i stan platonic!dramione so hard,,,, wish i could just write friendship fluff. but before fluff comes angst sjskfjsk

 

 

About a week later, Pansy storms into their dorm room and huffs, "Draco is dating _Astoria_."

Hermione doesn't look up from her phone. "Who?"

"A _freshman_ ," Pansy says incredulously. " _Daphne_ —my _best friend_ , Daphne, who's like, my favorite person in the world, you know her, she looks like Suki Waterhouse but with _way_ better style, and Draco _promised_ —her little sister!"

"Did you really think he'd be better than that?" Hermione asks in a measured tone.

"Well..." Pansy sighs and takes off her coat, slipping out of her heels. "As long as they're both happy, I guess I'd be okay with it. Daphne, though—she's going to go _ballistic_."

"Mmhmm."

 "Why are you being so calm about this, anyway?" Pansy asks, yanking her earrings out with an aggressiveness that makes Hermione wince.

"Because it really has no significance in my life, Pansy," Hermione says. She's lying through her teeth. It's been making her want to crawl under the covers and never resurface. How it is that every time she thinks things might actually go her way, something comes crashing down? She'd at least hoped she and Draco could coexist in a strange, fraught mess of a friendship, but — but maybe she was wrong. Maybe people like him and people like her aren't meant to mesh together. "I don't  _hate_ Draco, but that doesn't mean I care about him."

"Hmm," Pansy hums, looking unconvinced. "Apparently,  _you're_ the one who told Draco to go for it."

"Yes."

"So he values your opinion."

"I doubt it," Hermione says shortly. She's typing something on her phone, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Ugh," Pansy mutters. "You're both too emotionally constipated to realize what's right in front of you."

Hermione looks up for the first time, dark brown eyes narrowing. Her hair catches in the warm afternoon sun, rich chestnut ribboned with copper and bronze.

And then Hermione says, "Pansy... if he's content and I'm content, can't you just _let it be_?"

"Okay," Pansy says finally. "Okay."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Astoria Greengrass has her sister's delicately arched cheekbones and upturned nose, the same scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the same full lips. Her hair is dark, nearly black, and falls to her waist like a curtain of silk. She's lovely and slight, with creamy skin and a peculiar softness to her features that is quite the opposite of Daphne. Where Daphne is striking and bold, Astoria is sweet and unassuming. She's — she's a nice, friendly, _normal_ girl.

Hermione likes her. As much as she can, at least, considering the situation.

She's only bumped into the happy couple a few times, but the last time was awkward to the point of embarrassment. She'd been rummaging through the shelves of her favorite bookstore, looking for a steal. Draco and Astoria had come swinging into the store, his arm draped over her shoulder in that casual, _we've-been-together-for-years_ way, pressing kisses to her forehead. Astoria had a dreamy smile on her face. They were the picture of happiness, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. Astoria's dark hair against Draco's silvery blond; how she was _tall_ , with legs for miles and miles. They looked content. Hermione didn't feel like her heart had been ripped from her chest or anything dramatic like that. It'd just stung a little bit.

Then Draco had seen her ducking behind the display and waved cheerfully, his eyes fixed on her. She'd had to wave back, had to witness Astoria's curious whisper. And Draco had stared at her until she'd made a run for the door.

Afterward, she'd laughed in disbelief, then gone to get herself a hot chocolate. As if hot chocolate would take her mind of the way his eyes had followed her out the door. As if hot chocolate would take her mind of Astoria's sweet smile. As if hot chocolate would fix her stupid heart from hurting over the dumbest fucking things.

As _if_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Draco adores her," says Romilda Vane, with the sincerity of a snake. "He simply cannot get enough."

"Greengrass pussy," Daphne says, sipping her beer. "The best in the world."

Pansy laughs so hard that she gets the hiccups and has to be pounded on the back by Romilda. "Greengrass and Parkinson pussy," she corrects once she's caught her breath. Hermione grimaces into her cup.

"Astoria says he gives _great_ head," Romilda whispers conspiratorially. "Tongue of a python."

Hermione _chokes_. Romilda gives her a swift blow to the back.

Daphne just snorts. "Tongue of a python. Yeah, right."

It's the only thing that has ever come out of her mouth that makes Hermione smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Draco sends her a thank-you card.

 

**Thanks for the advice, sweetheart. Best advice anyone's ever given me. Here's a ten dollar Target gift card for your troubles.**

 

She uses it to buy a new notebook. In it, she writes, "I HATE DRACO MALFOY" thirty-four times. Free therapy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Draco's hands are buried in Astoria's hair. His lips move against hers with the expertise of a practiced kisser, but Astoria tugs on the front of his shirt and deepens their kiss. Hermione can see someone's tongue — Draco's, probably — can hear Astoria's breathy moans. She's frozen in place. An unfamiliar feeling, green and sick and burning —  _jealousy_ — is rising through her abdomen. Her fists are clenched. She's past denial. She's admitting it. This is envy. She wishes she had something, _anything_ , like this. She misses this easy intimacy, this furious passion, this need to be as close to each other as you [pssibly can. This is jealousy, too, because _god_ does she wish it was herself Draco was kissing like that. His hand slides up Astoria's back, then down to her waist, cupping her ass, murmuring something throatily before kissing her again.

They're in front of the fucking elevator. It's been a _long_ night. Neither of them have noticed they have an audience.

Draco says, very loudly, "I'm going to fucking _marry_ you."

Astoria giggles and says, "Shhhh, baby. People will hear you."

"Yes," Hermione says pointedly. She doesn't give a _fuck_. She needs to get on the elevator. "People might, uh, hear you."

Everything about Draco changes when he sees her. His ease, his relaxed stance, his lovesick-puppy smile, all of it —  _disappears_. Well, Hermione thinks bitterly, at least she can put magician on her resume now. He stiffens, straightens his shirt, lets go of Astoria, a cold blankness settling across his features. Astoria doesn't say anything. Her face is impassive, but she's watching Draco gaze at Hermione and something infinitesimal shifts in her expression. Draco's eyes are stormy, the color of a sky about to cloud over with rain. Hermione meets his eyes helplessly, drawn to him in that inexplicable way that she's always been drawn to him.

She grips the white sleeves of her blouse and says, in a much more plaintive voice than she'd wanted to use, "Well, congratulations."

And then Draco's face falls and — and he _looks_ at her lips and _looks_ up at her eyes, and then he says, in the most assured tone she's ever heard, "I'm not getting married yet."

"Right," Hermione whispers. Every sharp retort has slipped from her tongue. "Right. Weddings are difficult to plan."

"You're wearing white," he murmurs, eyes never leaving her, not for a moment, and then Astoria's saying in a small, confused voice, "What's going on?" and Draco's blinking and realizing where he is and Hermione —  _Hermione_. Hermione touches Astoria's arm and says tenderly, "Take Draco and put him to bed. Don't let him drink this much, either. He'll say things he doesn't mean." And she breaks her own heart, saying those words, saying that truth. As the reality of the situation sinks in, Draco looks like his heart might be breaking too.

"Don't fuck this up anymore than you already have, Malfoy," Hermione says to him. "You're happy. Happier than you would be—" She doesn't finish, but they both know what she means. Than you would be _with me._

Astoria seems to understand a little bit, and she tilts her chin up. "Come on, Draco," she says. "We've got promises to keep."

 

 

* * *

 

 

And Hermione has miles and miles to go before she sleeps.

 


	6. megaphone to my chest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw motherfuckers when i said this was gonna be a slow burn i MEANT THAT SHIT so buckle up,,,,, god,,,,, i want them (meaning d & h ofc) to fuck already...... i hate myself,,, am i, the author, supposed to say that? probably not, oh well. anywho, kudos are wonderful, comments are literally my favorite thing in the world, anything at all keeps me going <3 thanks for reading angels!

 

 

"It's kind of a funny story," Ginny says into her whiskey glass as Hermione tries valiantly to get the bartender's attention. "You wouldn't think  _Ernie Macmillan_ was good in bed, would you? I mean, he's alright looking if you squint and drink all night, but he was always so...  _boring._ Like, the kind of guy who wouldn't know what to do once you started."

"Mmm-hmm," Hermione replies, buried in her own thoughts.

"Exactly!" Ginny beams. "But he was surprisingly good. Sorry if I talk about sex a lot, by the way, I know it's probably annoying considering you aren't getting some, but—it's just that recently my sex life has gone from good to _insane_. I think it must be all the Orlando Bloom films I've been watching."

"Legolas  _is_ kind of sexy," Hermione agrees, downing another glass of wine like a mom of five at a dinner party. Pretending not to hear the unconscious comment about her own lack of a sex life. "Blond hair, gray eyes. Hot stuff."  _Sounds like someone else we know,_ a shrill voice taunts inside her head.  _Go away_ , she snaps silently.  _So not in the mood to drown myself in any more self-pity than I already_ _have_.

"I was thinking more along the lines of Will Turner," Ginny sighs. "Y'know, swashbuckling, rugged pirate with a heart of gold. Windswept dark hair, good with a sword, kind and gentle, but also a fucking _badass_."

Hermione yawns, covering her mouth with one hand. "At this point," she says, slurring her words a little bit, "I'd settle for some peace and quiet. A tiny cottage in the moors of Scotland. All by myself."

 "Also," Ginny says, "he buys me flowers."

Hermione pretends not to think about the dozen stemmed roses she found on her doorstep a few days earlier, with a note written on creamy cardstock and intialed _**D. M.**_ All it had said was, _I'm sorry._  The roses were scarlet red — a stupid, romantic color — one that brought to mind the dreams that had been plaguing her lately. Dreaming featuring none other than the pointy blond weasel himself. Hermione would sometimes wake up in the morning and have to  _convince_ herself that she wasn't horny.

"Also," Hermione says, getting to her feet and tossing Ginny a couple bucks, "I'm getting a fucking sex life."

  

 

* * *

 

 

It's not _rational_ , what she's doing. It's reckless. It's emotionless and physical and demanding. It's rough, impatient sex, it's bruises on her inner thighs, it's pining after Draco, it's being flown out to international hotels, stealing the tiny bottles of conditioner and attending boring soccer matches, it's madness, insanity, it's Viktor- _fucking_ -Krum.

They meet unceremoniously at Ginny's celebration party for making it onto the women's national soccer team. Despite his gruff kindness, she doesn't  _like_ him. He's handsome. Strong jaw, dark, wind-ruffled hair, crooked nose. Crooked smile. Crooked teeth. She doesn't want to know him, not really, and he seems indifferent to the idea. So — she _fucks_ him. There's no connection beyond the physical attraction, no matter how much she wants there to be. He's too crooked. Into drugs, she knows that, she can't change that, she wants to change him, wants to help him, needs to keep her heart locked away.

He doesn't understand her thirst for knowledge, her intense dislike of organized sports, her preference for books over cleats. He doesn't tell her about his family. She hears pieces from other people, and wonders _why_ , after they're lying there in bed, after the sex is done and the sun has set, _why_ he doesn't tell her these things. Sometimes she wants so badly to share something with him, _anything_ , that she grips the bedsheets until they rip under her nails. Viktor Krum is the young and upcoming Lionel Messi of the soccer world. He doesn't have time for these things. Sex with her when he can have sex with anyone? She asks him _why, why, why,_ and he's so quiet, she fills the empty space with her words, and it doesn't fit, she doesn't feel, it's not like _Draco_ — witty, wolfish Draco, who can match her word for word, who is never quiet, always teasing, always baiting, always  _alive._  Viktor Krum is _there_. So she's cool, cold, practical. He doesn't make her cum, but he wears her out. It's _good_. It's  _different_. It's  _lifeless._

They aren't together. They aren't dating. He's often seen with other girls.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sex with Viktor is like playing a game. Take a sport, or a board game, even. Calculated moves. Ten steps ahead. Always thinking of something —  _someone_ — else. He's ruthless, commanding, cock buried so deep inside her that she can barely breathe, barely move. He thrusts, _fast fast fast fast and he's running he's running oh oh oh Krum has the ball ohhhhhhhh and...and...and...he scores!_

 

 

* * *

 

 

viktor: ** _W_ _ho is Draco?_**

 smartass™: _?_

viktor _: **Draco?**_ **_You were calling this name out last night_**

smartass™: [DELETED] _~~that's the name of the fucking bane of my existence~~_

smartass™: _yes sorry_

smartass™: _just an american soft drink_

smartass™: _i guess i was pretty thirsty_

viktor _: **What is a "soft drink"?**_

smartass™: _like soda_

viktor: **_ah_**

viktor _: **If you need something to drink, ask me**_

smartass™: [DELETED] _~~what do you care anyway~~_

smartass™: [DELETED]  ~~ _i miss him_~~

smartass™: [DELETED]  ~~ _i miss him so much so much so fucking much oh my god_~~

smartass™: [DELETED] _a ~~nd i haven't let myself think about it because i'm frightened of the feelings that might arise.~~_ ~~_~~i~~ still have those idiotic roses and his moronic cards and his face always in the back of my mind. he is tender with me in a way i shouldn't understand. i think i am in love with an idea of him, an expectation without a shape or meaning. not that i know him, not truly. i couldn't even call him a friend, but i feel inside me that i know him, that i have known him for a long, long time. since the day i barged into his life and his apartment, we've been circling each other, magnets just south of pulling together at last. i believe, though we have our differences, that he knows me better than anyone else in my life. draco malfoy belongs in some part with me. you are just a stop along the road, and he is the destination._~~

_smartass™: _ _ok thank you___

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ginny breaks up with Ernie Macmillan and begins dating Viktor Krum in a plot twist that stuns the tabloids and gives them a field day.

"It's an  _open_ relationship," she says brightly to Hermione. Outside on the newstand, Ginny and Viktor stand side by side, her freckles covered in makeup and her sunglasses pulled low, his mouth open. The headline reads grandly, _Victoria and David for a new generation_.

The next day after it's made official, Hermione _technically_ doesn't fuck over her best friend when she sleeps with Viktor for the fifteenth time on a Tuesday. And these days, she's all about technicalities. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 She's so  _mean_ to Viktor, and he's just _nice_.

She's never asked to be his girlfriend. He's never pushed the issue.

They both know it's a temporary arrangement. Still, sometimes, very rarely, Hermione wishes things had been different.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Astoria Greengrass makes it a point to call on Pansy. Hermione is lying on the couch separating their two sides of the dorm when Astoria walks in. Her hair is shorter and almost black; there are purplish circles underneath her eyes; still, she's as lovely as ever. She ignores Hermione's presence and says, "Hello, Pansy."

"Coffee?" Pansy offers from their tiny kitchen. "Tea? Juice?"

"No thank you," Astoria says shortly. "I won't be here for too long."

Pansy — who is, per usual, wearing large diamond earrings that are totally unacceptable for kitchen attire  _and_ look like they're dragging her earlobes at least an inch lower — says conversationally, "You know, you're nothing like Daph. She would want some of my best vodka."

"I don't drink," Astoria replies, her eyes fixed steadily on Pansy.

"Geez," Pansy says. "How on earth do you deal with Draco's alcoholism?"

"Hermione Granger," Astoria says. Hermione, who has been idly playing with a piece of yarn on her sweater, looks up. For the first time, she's the one who looks freshly fucked, and Astoria certainly notices it.

" _Hermione_?" Pansy asks, beyond confused. "How—"

"Thank you," Astoria continues, "for staying away. He's so much better off now."

" _Fan-_ tasic," Hermione says coolly. "Pans, I'm going to take a shower."

 

 

* * *

 

 

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish: ** _pansy_**

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish: ** _PANSY_**

 paris "pansy" hilton: _it's the middle of the fucking night u crazy bitch_

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish:  _ **i know that you idiot**_

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish:  _ **and yet you're still up...**_

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish: **_anyways,_** _ **i need your help**_

 paris "pansy" hilton: _how's astoria?????? huh???????_

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish:  _ **that's what i need help with**_

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish:  _ **see**_

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish:  _ **she thinks hermione is a major threat to our relationship**_

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish:  _ **and i need her to know that's not the case**_

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish:  _ **so i need you to help me become friends with hermione**_

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish:  _ **flat-out avoiding her has just made things worse**_

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish:  _ **astoria is suspicious**_

 paris "pansy" hilton: _correct me if im wrong here dumbass, but aren't u INTO hermione_

 spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish:  _ **NO**_

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish:  _ **not anymore**_

 paris "pansy" hilton: _this isn't gonna go the way u think it's gonna go u rat_

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish: **_please my angelic best friend light of my life_**

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish: **_pretty_**   ** _please_**

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish: **_pretty_**   ** _please with a cherry on top?_**

 paris "pansy" hilton: _fine u fucking bitchass brat_

spoilt lil fucker whom i still love and cherish: **_love u too_**

 

 


	7. broadcast the boom! boom! boom!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been feeling so _ick_ towards this fic lately and i don't even know why. i reread and reread it and every. single. time. it gets so much worse. i'm in a state of hating my writing and i hate this fic and i hate jk rowling and i hate myself xoxo
> 
> edit: my writing block is gone!!!!! i've been listening to kids by onerepublic and it's such a dramione song it put me in a Mood so yeah enjoy. also comments are blessings and so are kudos mwah

 

 

Hermione can feel her bed shaking beneath her. Music is booming next door, a nice, cool shot of nostalgia, but annoying all the same. Rap, she thinks, that familiar _white-boy-delegation_ type Draco seems to love. She sighs, pulling her duvet to her chin and squeezing her eyes shut. Advil would be absolutely brilliant right about now _,_ she thinks. She isn't furious at the sound of it anymore; she's conditioned herself to ignore anything that might remind her of Malfoy. She's taken to calling him _Malfoy_ because it's clinical, detached, the way she might have addressed him had things been different.

_And that's the fucking thing. Had things been different — had things been different, maybe she would've had some resemblance of righteousness, because she's always screwing up, always stumbling where others glide, always curious, always trusting of the wrong people, always Hermione, Hermione Granger, rash and brilliant and somehow so useless when it comes to the things that matter._

She stumbles out of bed and makes her way to the bathroom. Splashing water on her face, she blinks up at the mirror. Her hair is flat against her scalp and drawn back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are more swollen than usual. Her pajamas: a long-sleeved white shirt and polka-dotted drawstring pants to match. She looks wistful and defeated and very much in need of sleep.

"Hermione," Pansy mumbles from the living room, "d'you mind telling them to quiet down? I've got an awful headache."

Hermione whines a little under her breath but resigns herself to the task.

Using Pansy's faded pink flip-flops, she trudges to the door. Spilling into the hallway are an assortment of well-dressed, unfairly attractive rich kids. Laughing, talking, drinks cluttering against the railings, bangles chiming and glasses clinking, a group of young men chanting along to the song, stylish, leggy girls with tanned limbs slung across each others' laps. It's like a fucking cult or something, Hermione thinks, the whole lot of them — with their hideously expensive bottles of premium vodka and cherry-cola flavored e-cigarettes and tinny, prepackaged 90s pop music — and she knows the slender, fair-haired god standing in the doorway is to blame for her searing headache.

And then that terrible, terrible, godawful Hanson song — Mmmbop — starts playing.

Draco gives her a rueful smile, raking a hand through his hair. With a pang, Hermione notices that Astoria isn't hanging off his arm. As a matter of fact, she is nowhere to be seen.

A prepubescent boy's voice comes echoing through the dorms:  _you go through all the pain and strife, then you turn your back and they're gone so fast, ooooooh yeah._ An old song, she thinks, but sweet in its commonness. 

Draco's moving past the crowd at the door and he's crossing his arms over his chest, green sleeves hiked up to his elbows, and then he's standing in front of her, humming along, eyes dancing like pale grey stars. Observing her less-than-impressed expression, he says, "What? How can you not like this song, sweetheart?"

She rolls her eyes, lips twitching. "Not all of us are stuck in the seventh grade, Malfoy."

"Ooh, I'm  _Malfoy_ now," he mimics. Hermione can't help but smile. He's so boyish and adorable like this, obviously drunk and obviously having the time of his life. A happy, free-spirited kid — and her heart is full. She hates that he has such an effect on her.

And then he begins to sing. She winces, pretending to cover her ears. Grinning, he takes her hands in his and swings her around until the laughter bubbles out of her. "Best bloody song," he murmurs.

She surveys his outfit with disapproval. "I don't know what your obsession with green is, but it is _so_ not your color."

Draco looks wounded. "Good grief, Granger. No need to be harsh."

"Granger?" Hermione says disbelievingly. "I thought  _I_ was the petty one."

"My god, you're insulting my outfit, woman?" Draco says, seizing her worn sleeves and shaking his head. "Look at this."

"As if your pajamas are any better," she retorts.

"Actually, I sleep naked," he says, eyes twinkling. She blushes down to her feet. To Draco's credit, he just grins. "So I reckon you came out here to tell me to quiet down. Reminds me of the night we met."

 _Things were so different then,_ she wants to say.  _So simple._ Instead, she tells him, "Yeah, Pansy's complaining that you're giving her a headache, and honestly? I can't _believe_ she's taking my side. That should tell you something is seriously wrong."

His expression sobers suddenly, as if he's just been reminded of something. "Look, Hermione..."

Her throat is dry. "Yeah?"

"Can we talk? Properly? Like, inside? By ourselves?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

 They end up in the kitchen, which is mostly empty — save for a few guys passed out on the floor. He makes his way through the destruction, kicking plastic cups and beer bottles aside in a failed attempt to clear a path. Hermione finds a bar stool without any suspicious stains and sits down, crossing her arms over her chest. She has no idea what Draco is about to tell her and she's not sure she wants to know. As far as she knows, he and Astoria are still going strong. His Instagram had been updated recently with a picture of them together, Astoria's face crinkled in mid-laugh, Draco's hands on her shoulders. Hermione had shut her laptop the first time she saw it. It was  _happy._ Like her and Cormac at the beginning, when all she wanted was to be with him and share everything with him and bask in their happiness together.

"So," Draco says, shaking her out of her reverie. "I've been thinking."

She arches a brow. "Surprising."

He snorts. "Let me finish, smartass."

"Alright, alright."

"I know you haven't always liked me," he starts.

It's her turn to snort. "That's the understatement of the century."

"Fine," he concedes. "We both hate each other's guts sometimes, but I don't think you hate _me_ , Hermione."

"Oh yeah," she says. "Totally."

"You don't, though." Draco braces himself against the counter. "You don't hate me. I think we get along pretty well, actually. When you're not being a total stick-in-the-mud."

"Wow, thanks so much."

"C'mon, Hermione. I don't see why we can't be friends."

And that's when she _snaps_. Two days ago, she gushed over Ginny's glittering promise ring from Viktor. Yesterday, she fucked him in a broom closet with the shelves clattering and the lightbulb flickering like an exorcism. Not that it released any of her demons.  Ginny is one of her dearest friends, but some sick part of her keeps thinking, _I had Viktor first._ And she won't —  _can't_ — let go of him. Draco, Draco, Draco; she forgets about the golden moment outside their dorms, the smell of mango nicotine and his laugh; she remembers she can hate him too. Oh, can she  _hate_ him.

Now Draco wants to be friends? Has he completely forgotten how close they came to _screwing_ — screwing over Astoria?

"Well, considering one of the last times you saw me, you practically _proposed_  to me in front of your girlfriend, I'd say you're not doing too well on the friendship front. You think we can be _friends_?"

His eyes are blazing. "I did not," he argues with a vehemence she wouldn't have expected from him. "I _love_ Astoria."

A million different memories course through her mind: a tearful Pansy, worried about Draco's waning health, his excessive drinking, not sure if it's her place, terrified that she's too late; the sorority girl standing outside his room, his brutal dismissal that echoes with disdain, Hermione's budding hatred, a hatred that blinds her; how somehow he's always sweet when he's had a bit too much to drink, and so _cruel_ when he's had too little.

"That's not fucking fair, Draco."

"That's not true," he says stonily. "It doesn't mean I don't care about you as a friend. It doesn't mean you don't like me."

"You know what, _no_ ," and her voice is quavering, but she isn't stumbling over her words now because _this_ , cruel, biting words she aims at his chest like a gun,  _this_ is her fatal flaw. This is her weapon.

"I _don't_ like you, and I _don't_ want to be your friend, because all you are and all you'll ever be is an entitled, egotistical _asshat_ who uses daddy's money to cover up your alcoholism. Do you _seriously_ think no one has noticed how shitty you are when you haven't had enough to drink? The truth is, Malfoy, you're just a rich kid with nothing better to do than waste your life away. You don't deserve Pansy, you don't deserve me, and you certainly don't deserve _Astoria_."

SIlence. He's waiting for the punch line, and she delivers. "But hey, tell me you're sober right now and I'll take it all back. Say it. Say you're not drunk as fuck."

She waits for the triumph, but all she sees is his face: white as a sheet, cold as glass. A gentle breath, then nothing. He is a statue, frozen by the bullets she's aimed so carelessly at him. Hermione has hit a nerve. She knows it from the way he lets out a breath, slow and controlled.

"You don't know anything about me," he says quietly.

Her laugh is bitter. "Tell me something I don't know about you, Malfoy. I think I got it all right."

"Don't call me that."

"Malfoy?" she says sweetly, all the rage and despair and loneliness pent up inside her for so long shattering across the walls.

His face contorts. " _Don't_ ," he grits out.

"But it is," she says, suddenly tired of the spitefulness uncoiling within her. She can't seem to control it anymore.

He raises his eyes to hers and it hits her like a thunderbolt: grief, so much grief, grey darkening to black.

"You want to know something about me, Hermione Granger?" he says. "How about this? Malfoy isn't my name, per se. It's my father's name. Lucius Malfoy. I had no choice in the matter. It was given to me when I was born. Does that name ring a bell, or do I need to spell it out for you?"

Headlines flash through her mind:  _Corrupt Politician Kicked Out of Running, Malfoy Bribes Informers to Keep Quiet, Malfoy Acquitted of Fraud, Losing the Public's Faith: A Novel by Lucius Malfoy._ Her father's least favorite candidate for Congress. Hermione feels dumbfounded. How could she have not connected the dots? How could she have been so caught up in herself that it never even  _crossed her mind_ —

"For as long as I've been alive, my life has been shadowed by my father's politics. Every move is calculated. Everything, every scandal, every victory, all of it—dwarfed by the money. The greed. In front of the cameras, he was always kind, pinching my cheek, offering me a smile. At home, he was a different person.  He would hit my mother all the time, even in front of me. And when I got old enough to take the damage, he turned to me. At first, it was his fists. Then belts, the back of his pistols, until he turned a knife on me and I ended up in the emergency room. He covered it up pretty well, but after that he was careful with his blows. My mother received the worst of it, I think. But I was too young to understand what was happening and I—" his voice cracks.

There are tears in his eyes. She raises a trembling hand to her mouth.

"—I hid under the bed," he finishes, bowing his head. "Of course I knew he was a bad person, but I tried to convince myself that it was normal, that it was just something he did. I _loved_ him. He was supposed to be my father, and for a long time I believed it could get better. I knew he would do anything to get where he wanted, and my mother was too tired to fight him. When she became ill, she didn't tell him—or me. For a long time, she was dying and she carried that burden with her. Never told a soul. When she passed, I was fifteen, and I thought I would die too. She was my only ally and the only person who knew the truth behind my father, and then she was gone.

"He only got worse after her death. He craved control, and she had gone and died without his permission. He started doing illegal things to get to the top, small at first. Bribery, fraud. As you probably know, he didn't get away with his crime. His money kept him out of jail, but he hasn't shown his face in public since. I've never accepted a cent from him when it came to Yale. Malfoy. It's a cursed name. People look at me and they see someone they can despise, someone they can manipulate. And that's the reason why I liked you so damn much, because I thought you saw me for me, not me for _my father_  like everyone else always has."

They're both shaking with the brunt of what he's just shared. Draco's eyes are pinned to the floor, hands balled at his sides.

Hermione says into the silence, voice clumsy and stumbling over the words, "I-I never _realized_. How could I have never have made that connection? But I-somehow I didn't, Draco, I _didn't_. I swear to God, I never thought..."

Draco crumples to the floor. There are tears running down his face, and the horror of what he's said still echoes within Hermione's brain.  _Daddy's money,_ she'd spat at him minutes earlier. Had it been her, she would have slapped him. Draco — so much more decent than she deserves.

He raises his head. "I'm drunk, by the way, so  _stop_ looking at me with pity already. If I was sober, I probably would've thrown something at you."

So, not _that_ decent.

But because she's a little bit in love with him and reeling from the shock of all he's shared with her, she slips down from the stool and takes him into her arms, positioning his head on her lap. She palms his cheeks, wiping away the tears with her hands. Draco doesn't resist. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets her stroke his hair. In the dim light of the kitchen, he looks like a painting. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

When he doesn't shift away, she soldiers on. "I'm sorry," she repeats. "I was so angry, not at you, really, just at myself and the way I've fucked everything up. You might be insufferable and infuriating and sometimes I might want to punch you right in your perfect face," at this he laughs a little, and her heart swells, and it's all so beautiful and terrible and bittersweet, sitting here on the kitchen floor, trying not to cry, trying to pretend this isn't love, "but you've changed me, Draco, and I don't know how or why but you came along and made me that much more happy. Don't ever think I haven't seen you for you. And _fuck_ your dad, I mean, _Jesus Christ,_ I hope you're in therapy, but if I could kill that bastard right now, I would."

"I know," he says, and when he looks up at her, his eyes are clear as day. Hermione drags her fingernails across his scalp, ignoring the slight hitch of his breath, and smiles. She smiles like she's never been more content, like she's never loved anyone this much, ( _because_   _has she? has she ever loved anyone more in this pure, glistening diamond of an instant?)_ , and she's radiant _._  Leaning down, she kisses his forehead.

" _I see you,_ Draco," she says into his hair. "Drunk or sober. Cruel or kind. _I always see you._ " 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 In the morning, it's a different story.

She wakes tangled in his arms, her head on his chest and one arm in his hair, the side of her mouth sticky with drool. She extricates herself from the telling position with some difficulty and stands by the kitchen sink, staring at nothing and wondering how the  _fuck_ everything went so wrong — and so right — so quickly. Draco wakes up and for a moment, she can tell he doesn't remember, and part of her is relieved, another part devastated, and then he glances at her and says tightly, " _Fuck_." 

Wordlessly, he makes them both coffee, and then they sit, ruminating in the events of last night. Hermione warms her hands with the mug, inhaling the rich, familiar scent. Her pajamas are smudged with whatever is on the kitchen floor. She doesn't want to think about it.

"I'm in love with Astoria," he says finally. "That isn't going to change. I've been in love with her for a long time. Before I met you, even." He hesitates. "And then I met you."

"Yeah," she says, finding it sort of laughable. "And then you met me."

Draco rubs the back of his neck. "But I thought you would never come around, and then Astoria was there, and she liked me too, and it was all so perfect. And I knew that day when you interrupted us I still had feelings for you, but then I realized how close I'd come to jeopardizing what I had. I know what you meant that day too. You and I aren't..."  _Meant to be_ , is what he wants to say. "...compatible like that," is what he says instead.

Hermione is resigned to this idea. Draco loves Astoria; she makes him happy; he deserves happiness. She and Draco are a disaster waiting to happen, a trainwreck, bound to end in tragedy. They aren't cut out for the long-term: she's too neurotic, he's too stubborn. She remembers thinking this once, that people like them didn't mesh together.

 She doesn't mean to say it. "I just didn't know it would hurt this much."

He sighs, downing his coffee in one go. "I didn't think I would need you this much."  She doubts he meant to say it either. 

"You haven't told Astoria?" she asks.

Draco winces. "She'd look at me with pity. I don't want her to feel like she has to tiptoe around me."

"But if she knows you, won't she understand?"  _Understand like I do,_ Hermione wishes she could say.

"We're not like that, she and I. We're just normal. We don't talk about our traumas. We have fun and try to make each other happy. Isn't that what love is, anyway?"

 _Quite the opposite, actually,_ she thinks, but doesn't voice it. If he wants to live that way, he can. She has no hold over him anymore.

Draco sits up in his seat, his posture suddenly so flawless it makes Hermione feel as if she's falling backward. Pale blond hair falls in front of his eyes, but he swipes at it impatiently. "Hermione, I wasn't going to bring this up, but you're seeing someone too, aren't you?"

Her mind goes blank. How could he possibly —

 "It's just sex," she says automatically. It isn't. She's possessive now. She knows she's Viktor's favorite out of the dozens of girls he fucks, and she likes being his first choice. She doesn't love him, but she wants him to love her. She wants him to need her. She wants to be loved, but she doesn't want to have to reciprocate that love. Unfortunately, Viktor has a habit of seeing right through her facade. _God_ , how hypocritical of her to call Draco a mess when she's the biggest one of them all. _Mirror, mirror._

"But it helps?"

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, it does."

"Will you be all right?" he asks. "This didn't go how I thought it would, but can we still...talk, at least?"

She smiles a little sadly. "If you ever _desperately_ need to talk, I'm always next door. Just blast your atrocious music and I'll know."

He laughs and takes her hand. "Shit," he says. "I don't want to lose you."

"Nothing to lose," Hermione tells him. "Just try not to break any more hearts, okay?"

She sees the question on his face.  _Did I break yours?_

"I still hate your guts," she says honestly, "but I want you to be happy more."

And she burns this memory in the back of her mind, his hand in hers, the morning light shimmering through the blinds, her unfinished cup of coffee, glass on the ground and how it felt to wake up in his arms. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Astoria can tell something is wrong. Draco's body language is practically screaming  _STAY THE FUCK AWAY._ She doesn't know how to do that, though, so she just places her head on his shoulder. His flinch practically cracks through his body. He doesn't even look apologetically at her, just stares down at the coffee table with ice-cold eyes. But then he's moving closer, every soothing gesture his own way of saying sorry.

"Baby," she murmurs. "Do you wanna talk?"

"Story?"

"Yes?"

"Do you care who my father is?"

The question takes her by surprise. Draco never speaks about his father; she'd always considered it to be a taboo subject. She takes this as a step forward: he's finally wiling to open Pandora's box. She feels a surge of love and protection for this boy of hers, this brave, sad boy.

She knows he harbors some trauma from his childhood. He has to, given his father. She wouldn't be surprised to learn he'd been abused, given his odd, jumpy reflexes when she makes certain movements, even in bed. There is a darkness just beneath the surface, but she knows it's only a piece of him.

She wants to love all of him, even the dark and the broken parts. She just wishes he would let her in.

"Of course not," she says. "Who you are isn't defined by who your parents are."

This seems to satisfy him. He drapes an arm around her shoulder and kisses the side of her brow. "I hope so," he says, lost in thought. "I hope so."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello draco just got a whole lot more fucked-up, which hopefully creates some quality angst? also in this house we want astoria my angel loml to be happy so that's a priority!!!!!! i cried while writing this pls don't kill me just leave a comment yelling @ me instead <3


	8. and make 'em all dance to it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been five months oof
> 
> ok just wanted to say this: i'm not one of those authors who writes a character with trauma and then never properly resolves the issues stemming from that trauma. in this fic, i'm not planning on making light of what draco (or any of the other characters) have been through.
> 
> that said, i love u for sticking around this long <3 comments are like. the best thing. they make me wanna write more. they make me feel like people actually care about this lil old fic. so pLEASE. if u wanna, write me a comment. tell me what u like, what u don't, how you're feeling. comments = my lifeblood

ickle ronniekins:  ** _MIONE_**

ickle ronniekins:  ** _SPRING BREAK_**

ickle ronniekins:  ** _I CANT WAIT_**

smartass™:  _hmmmmm_

ickle ronniekins:  ** _TALK 2 ME WHEN YOUR HERE_**

ickle ronniekins:  ** _OTHERWISE_**

ickle ronniekins:  ** _NO_**

smartass™:  _*you're_

smartass™: _im already on the plane_

ickle ronniekins:  ** _nice_**

ickle ronniekins:  ** _dab on em_**

ickle ronniekins:  ** _xcept harry dabbed on u hes already here_**

smartass™: _stop_

ickle ronniekins: **_lol xD_**

smartass™: _im turning around ronald_

ickle ronniekins:  ** _oof_**

 

 

* * *

 

So. So instead of dwelling on Draco as she's done in the past, Hermione makes plans with the old gang for spring break.

And _god_ is it refreshing to have a reprieve from the sleek cruelty of Pansy's upper class socialite friends. The cold, atmospheric climate of New Haven seems so far away from the Weasleys' charming, chaotic Nantucket home. She can see Daphne Greengrass wrinkling her nose.  _Nantucket? You mean the discount Hamptons?_

But all thoughts of the Greengrasses disappear when she notices Harry, his green eyes bright, pulling her into a hug with that warm familiarity she's missed so terribly. He is impossibly tanned — it's  _March_ , for Christ's sake — his teeth bright white against the walnut-brown of his skin. He's wearing some expensive name-brand cologne, his white button-down impeccably pressed, timeless Jaeger-LeCoultre watch fastened to his wrist. But something anchors her to his familiarity, and it's the sheer untidiness of his hair. As long as she's known him, never  _once_ has Harry's hair been neat. _Honestly._ It's admirable.

"You fucking _Colgate_ commercial," she says affectionately.

"Language," he teases.

Ginny's red-gold hair is pinned up, strands escaping to frame her face. She's not wearing makeup; she doesn't need it, alight with happiness. She kisses Hermione on the mouth with the brashness of a child, then twirls to show the way her pale blue sundress fans out behind her. She looks lovely and so  _happy._ Hermione doesn't dare ask about Viktor; she doesn't want to ruin the precious, fleeting moment of pure sunlight.  _Traitor,_ a little voice hisses.  _This girl has given you everything and you're throwing it all away._

The rest of the Weasleys come streaming out of the house. With its white trim and wraparound porch and red geraniums in every windowbox, the Burrow is right out of _Real Simple_. Its constant state of chaos makes it all the more endearing. A random assortment of shoes are jammed into two ugly green buckets by the front door, two umbrellas lying carelessly on the welcome mat. The trellis leading up to the attic is broken — no doubt from one of the twins' many shenanigans — bits of mint-green wood dangling over the second-story windows.

Charlie, all scar and sinew, is standing by the front steps, bickering furiously with a bespectacled Percy. Percy is examining the stain on his cashmere sweater with unbridled horror, Charlie brandishing a handkerchief with great abandon.

Bill and Fleur are standing with their arms around each other, looking on with great interest. Bill is cut from the same cloth as Charlie, with his long windswept hair and roguish grin. Hermione has often wondered whether Bill and Charlie were raised with less restraint than, say,  _Percy_. 

And Fleur —  _well_. Hermione isn't entirely sure Fleur is human. Long silvery hair falls to her waist in a curtain of silk, those Nordic cheekbones and slanted blue eyes that have been splashed across the covers of _Vogue_ and _Elle_ and  _Vanity Fair_. If Daphne and Romilda learned that Karl Lagerfeld's muse married a Weasley, she's certain they wouldn't be so quick to turn up their noses.

Molly cups Hermione's face with both hands, pinching her cheeks. Her pink and white Dolce & Gabbana gingham one-piece is beautifully crisp, but there's flour dusting her sleeves and hair. Her trademark red takes on a silvery sheen in the sunlight. "Oh, look how you've grown, darling. So beautiful," Molly says reverently. Hermione beams, pressing a kiss to Molly's temple.

Arthur is standing sheepishly to the side, but Hermione hugs him with such ferociousness that his sweater is rumpled and his glasses are askew when she pulls away.

The twins tug on Hermione's hair with matching (and terrifying) grins, then say in unison, " _You've got to come see the shop, honestly, 'Mione,"_ and then she sees _Ron_ , standing in the doorway, grinning, and for the first time in a year, she feels pure delight, as if all the sadness has lifted from her shoulders and now she has fucking _wings_.

Ron. Where does she begin? Before Cormac, before Draco, there was Ron — effervescent, cheerful,  _darling_ Ron. So silly and so oblivious, the first boy she ever truly loved. It's purely platonic now, of course, considering Ron's boyfriend is standing behind him, one hand on his waist, peering at her and  _oh my god,_ "Lee?"

And then Ron's running down the steps and kissing her on the forehead and lifting her up into the air and saying with that brilliant look in his eyes, "I  _knew_ you'd approve, 'Mione."

Lee Jordan — Lee  _fucking_ Jordan, who used to smoke weed in the garage with the twins, who tried to coax Hermione into hearing his mixtape, who got suspended for drawing a penis on a teacher's car — combs a hand through his dreads and gives her a warm smile, raising a hand in recognition.

"What the hell did Fred and George say?" she asks when she regains the power of speech.

Lee shrugs, mouth twitching. "They yelled at me for lusting after their little brother and then said they were glad it was me and not some douche with STDs."

Ron laughs and says, "I'm glad it was you and not some douche with STDs. Isn't that our motto, anyway? ' _A little chlamydia doesn't hurt._ '"

Lee chuckles as Hermione winces; ah, yes, Lee's easygoing nature is perfect for Ron's exaggerated humor.

"Oh my god, you couldn't have just told me Lee was your mystery boyfriend over text?" Hermione demands, a little offended. Ron had been so mysterious about the whole thing, and so tight-lipped that she'd eventually given up. And for it to be _Lee_? How she would have loved to tease the both of them.

"I wanted to see your reaction in person," Ron says, and then, "you smell amazing, by the way."

Hermione ruffles his hair and says, "So everyone else knew. _Unbelievable_. Honestly."

Lee shakes his head. "This is supposed to be your best friend, Ronald?"

"Who, me?" Harry interjects, squeezing between Ron and Hermione — not an easy feat, given Harry's all broad-shouldered and muscular now, but he does it easily, years of practice coming in handy. The three of them still fit together like pieces of a puzzle. It hits her like a bolt of lightning just how much she's missed them. It isn't easy, being on her own. It isn't easy, going months without seeing the people she considers family. 

Lee claps him on the back and says, "I'll let the golden trio have their moment."

And it's like the years fall away and she's back in high school, leaning against the lockers, arms around her boys, saying, _I have so much to tell you._

So, naturally, she starts crying. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ron and Harry always know when something is wrong, and so they take her up to the treehouse, the trees dappling sunlight across the wooden walls, holding her shoulders with gentle hands, guiding her to the rickety old stool by the makeshift window. She ends up wiping her nose on Harry's shirt, and bless his heart, he barely even winces. Ron looks utterly distraught.

"'Mione," he says. "Jesus. Are you alright?"

And here's the thing: Ron Weasley remains the most beautiful thing she's ever seen. He is pure. He is wonderful, so wonderful that it fills the space with an expectation, _are you ready for this much goodness and love and light and wonder and soul?_ She loves him so awfully much. The sea blue of his eyes, the golden stubble along his jaw, the soft tufts of red hair sticking up from his scalp: it hurts to look at him. This silly, dorky angel who sends her stupid memes, the sole person on the planet who has never expected her to be _Hermione Granger_ , who has only ever asked for her to skip rocks across the lake and skin her knee and wreck his dad's car and dance and laugh and cry and soar and be  _alive_ and be _happy_.

"Oh,  _Ron_ ," she breathes, fresh tears brimming in her eyes. "How the hell am I going to go without you again?"

"Hey," Harry objects, looking faintly offended.

"Harry," Ron says, a bit sharply.

"It's been hard," she admits, wiping at her eyes. "It's been lonely. You'd think after two and a half years at Yale I'd get used to it, right? But... I don't have my _people_ , you know? I don't have you guys."

"What about Cho?" Harry asks.

"She has Cedric," Hermione says.

"Want me to come live with you?" Ron offers. "Duke is kind of going downhill ever since Lavender found out I was gay."

"Please do," Hermione sighs, dropping her head onto his shoulder. His hands rub soothing little circles into her back.

"Yeah, Duke doesn't start for another two weeks. Want me to tag along for a bit?" 

Hermione jolts up, eyes wide. "Are you serious?"

"Course," Ron says, "why wouldn't I be?"

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, trying not to scowl. He isn't doing very well, his brow furrowed and his nostrils flared. "You're making me feel like a shit friend now, thanks."

"C'mere, Harry old boy," Ron says in an atrocious British-Scottish accent (she's not quite sure what he's attempting, actually), opening his arms. "We love you too. Good on you, making this about yourself."

Harry practically pounces on the both of them and they all tumble to the floor, and she's laughing, and they're laughing, and _maybe_ , she thinks, _maybe there is some magic left in the world._

 

 

* * *

 

 

So spring break passes in a whirlwind of laughter and old movies and crisp apple pie. Hermione cooks with Molly, gardens with Fleur, listens to Charlie's wild tales, dances with Ron, defeats Harry at chess. She goes to sleep with a full stomach and a clear head, and she doesn't dream. She wakes up to the sun streaming through the window, the glass bottles stacked on the sill casting shadows of yellow and green across the floor, the scent of smoky bacon and blueberry pancakes drifting in from the kitchen. In the morning she finishes essays and catches up on her reading; by the afternoon she slicks on SPF 50 and goes to lie on the sundeck. Percy takes them out on his shiny new boat; Arthur shows her the patent he's filled for an automated grape peeler; Fleur regales them with stories of haughty models and horrors on the runway.

Ginny even pressures her into buying two scraps of red silk posing as a bikini, and they sip champagne by the docks, dangling their feet above the sand. Somewhere across the water, a slow jazz song is playing. Ginny tips her head onto Hermione's shoulder and says, "I wish we could stay here forever."

Ginny sits up and splays her hand in front of her, fiddling with a ring that winks in the sunlight. It's simple, elegant, a silver band with a single blue diamond. Ginny wants Hermione to notice. Hermione has seen that ring before. It was offered to her once.

She schools her face into an expression of pleasant surprise. "That's new," she says evenly.

Ginny beams. "It belonged to Viktor's mother. Beautiful, isn't?"

"Beautiful?" Hermione muses, suddenly reminded that Viktor's lips on her neck are the same lips that trace Ginny's softer, lighter, more pliant body. "Yes..."

Ginny peers up into her face and says, "What's with that look?"

"What look?" Hermione says coldly. Her voice is brutal, sharp, a _cerbic —_ Ginny falters, tucking her hands into her pockets. "N-nothing. You looked a bit upset, that's all."

"It's your funeral, Ginny," Hermione murmurs, getting to her feet. Her collarbones jut out, birdlike and fragile, the cotton of her button-down bright white against the golden-brown of her skin. She feels loose and jittery, as if someone has detached her muscles from her bones and both are moving without the help of the other. She feels like pushing Ginny's stupid, _stupid_ idealizations into the sea and watching them drown.

It's Ginny's turn. " _What?_ "

"I said, it's your funeral."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Ginny says, brown eyes narrowing, temper flaring.

"I mean, he sleeps with a different girl every week, but... if that's your thing?"

"How would you know who he does or doesn't sleep with?" Ginny stands too, the strap of her blue two piece slipping from her shoulder. She crosses her arms across her chest. She's  _seething._

"I suppose I don't," Hermione says, but her voice betrays her. Ginny is silent for a moment, and then shrieks, " _You_!"

Hermione's mouth is numb and her tongue is like a weight. She can't speak. Her moment of weakness is all the proof Ginny needs. "You  _bitch_!"

Ginny doesn't stop there. " _Do you have to ruin everything?"_

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, Hermione makes her excuses and avoids Ginny's eye as she packs her bags and books a flight. Her only solace is Ron, who slings a much-too-small bag over his shoulder and says, "I'm coming with."


	9. our thing progresses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello angels thank u for sticking around for close to a year now, i swear we're starting to round the corner. i was planning on having 20 chapters, we'll see... anyways comments are the best thing, they make me wanna keep writing for u guys ilysm
> 
> (if u guys hang in there for long enough, i PROMISE there will be sexy times)

Ron Weasley takes one look at Pansy Parkinson and says, "I'll find somewhere else to stay."

Pansy sniffs. "He looks like he smells."

"She looks like she meows," Ron retorts.

Hermione says, "Pansy, this is my best friend in the world. Could you _try_ to be civil?"

Pansy flicks her eyes up and down Ron's gangly frame. " _That_ ," she says slowly, "is a boy."

"So?" Hermone says.

"I'm gay," Ron points out.

"There's no room," Pansy says shrilly. Hermione has to admit she has a point.

Then Pansy brightens. "But Draco has room."

" _Draco_?" Ron says loudly. "Draco _Malfoy_?"

"Ron can have my bed," Hermione says. "I'll sleep on the sofa."

"I'll take the sofa, 'Mione," Ron says. "It's fine."

Pansy's eyes soften. "Well then. He better not use up the hot water."

 

 

* * *

 

 

And there's a dark cloud looming over Hermione because it's like, the end of her and Draco — their explosive finale, their stalemate. It's like, god, Hermione put herself through so much, so much longing and restraint and sadness and pity and joy and laughter, and for what? All of it — even the parts that felt like a gift — gone.

She sends Pansy email after email, detailing the various rehabilitation groups in their area, Yale's very own Alcohol's Anonymous, tips on waning Draco off the beer and the vodka and the whiskey.

Pansy comes home some nights with eyes raw and red-rimmed from crying. "Nothing seems to help," she tells Hermione helplessly. "It's his coping mechanism. God, Hermione, I'm so worried."

And Hermione takes Pansy's hand and the two of them (one of whom has know Draco since she was a child and feels she owes it to him to try, the other desperate because it's really none of her business anymore, he's really none of her business anymore) try and breathe.

But she deletes her anonymous Instagram account and starts taking cooking classes and remembers what her mother used to say. This too will pass.

And it almost does.

Except — there's Pansy Parkinson.

 

 

* * *

 

 

smartass™: _hey pans im making dinner tonight ok_

smartass™: _i got bok choi_

smartass™: _and rice noodles_

smartass™: _im trying something new_

paris "pansy" hilton: **_yeet_**

paris "pansy" hilton: _**love this new phase**_

paris "pansy" hilton: **_pls continue cooking every night i love not having to do anything_**

paris "pansy" hilton: _**maybe ron is good for something**_

smartass™: _honestly i never understood why u liked cooking so much_

smartass™: _i mean, i always thought cooking was like a chore_

smartass™: _but it's so therapeutic_

paris "pansy" hilton: **_heh_**

paris "pansy" hilton: **_did you, the feminist KWEEN, just admit to liking cooking?_**

paris "pansy" hilton: **_what's next??????? sewing????_**

smartass™: _pls do NOT invite any of ur friends over tonight i only bought stuff for the 3 of us_

paris "pansy" hilton: **_...huh_**

smartass™: pansy smartass™: _ur kidding_

paris "pansy" hilton: **_they're not staying for dinner, dw_**

smartass™: _i always worry w/ u_

paris "pansy" hilton: _ **dawwwww**_

smartass™: _it's not a good thing_

smartass™: _ur doing the dishes tonight in return_

paris "pansy" hilton: ** _boo you whore_**

paris "pansy" hilton: _**im not being anti feminist it's a mean girls quote**_

paris "pansy" hilton: ** _i s2g DONT LEAVE ME ON READ_**

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione returns to their dorm with an armful of grocery bags, fumbling with the key and nearly dropping everything in the process. Her lips are chapped and her throat is the kind of dry where she has to swallow her own saliva to keep from choking. Making her way inside in an undignified manner, she doesn't bother to look up as she stumbles into the kitchen.

She dumps the food on the counter and yanks off her sweater, hiking her shirt halfway up her chest in the process. "I _hate_ shopping," she says, expecting a huff of indignation, or, if Pansy's in a benevolent mood, a snide comment without any sting. "Why don't we Postmate or use UberEats or something? Ron doesn't care. It would save my sanity."

A low chuckle stops Hermione in her tracks.

"Need some help?" Draco says unhelpfully from the sofa.

She turns slowly, hoping, _begging_ , but no luck. He's lounging there like some irritatingly attractive Burberry model, wearing a fucking see-through muscle tee. She tries to swallow and almost retches. She really needs that glass of water.

Then she notices her midriff is still exposed and yelps. Tugging her shirt down, she's faintly aware of the smirk that stretches sensually across his lips. He shouldn't be smiling at her like that. He should never look at her the way he does. It's confusing and infuriating and arousing all at once, and Hermione is dying to ask him why the hell he's giving her bedroom eyes when he has a girlfriend, but she knows things have always been more complicated than that. She's learning to navigate the grey areas now. If he's taught her anything, it's that nothing is ever black and white.

He says, "Pansy's taking a bath."

Hermione wants to hit something. Pansy's baths take two hours at the very least. She isn't likely to be out anytime soon, and Hermione is certain this unexpected vistor was Pansy's doing.

Draco takes her by surprise. "Need help?" He gestures to her overflowing bags on the countertop, the sweater strewn across the dirty kitchen floor. Grudgingly, Hermione nods.

He's efficient. He takes out the olive oil and the pans and wipes all the available surfaces clean in about two minutes, then unpacks the bags while Hermione struggles to open the package of noodles. He takes it from her and tears it open with his teeth, grinning wolfishly when she shakes her head in disbelief.

"What're you making?" he asks, running his fingers through silky blond hair. She ignores the glorious flex of his arm muscles as he tugs a drawer open and says, "It's a New York Times recipe."

She pulls it up on her phone and slides it over to him. He scans it and says, "You cook now, huh?"

Hermione doesn't want him here. She doesn't want him to help. She wants him to walk out of her life once and for all. She wants him to make a fucking decision. As if he's reading her mind, he says gently, "Look, I didn't come here to harass you, alright? Pansy needed me and I just want to wait it out to make sure she's okay. I'll go if you want me to."

He looks at her so earnestly and she feels her eyes burning. She shouldn't miss him this much, even when he's standing in front of her, close enough to touch. And it can't ever be normal between them again, not when she knows about his father's crimes. But she can't help it.

"Well, since you're here..."

She _shouldn't_ miss his smile, either, but _god_. He might be the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

"Okay," he says, pushing her phone towards her. "First of all, we have to make the shrimp."

"Yeah," Hermione says, flustered.

"By the way," he drawls, propping himself up with one elbow, "who's Ron?"

"None of your business," Hermione says, pulling herself together. She can't seem to stop staring at his lips, those sensuous, sensuous lips. He's so tall and broad-shouldered and graceful and he always makes her feel tiny and feminine and  _desired_. This is wrong, what she's doing. Wasn't it just yesterday she promised herself she would never betray herself or anyone else? Why can't she remember the look on Ginny's face? 

"Hey you," Draco says gently, tapping her nose. "Where'd you go?"

Heat floods through her body at the light touch. "I thought we agreed we were going to stay away from each other," she says, turning away. Her cheeks are warm and her breath is constricted. He still has that effect on her. She wonders if she'll ever be able to look him in the eye without feeling like the loneliest girl in the world.

"I wonder, Granger," he murmurs, "if there's a reason why we can't."

" _Draco_ ," she says.

" _Hermione_ ," he says.

"Stop," she demands, placing her hands on his chest and pushing. She can't move him, but she looks down at the gap between her arms and feels tears prick her eyes. "You can't keep fucking with me like this. It's not  _fair_."

"I miss you when you're not around," Draco says, very still. He reaches down and places his hands over hers, trapping them against his chest. "I wanted — I just wanted to hear your voice."

Hermione fists the material of his shirt with both hands, refusing to look up at him. She braces her hands against the hard planes of his chest, the rippling muscle. The heat between her legs throbs; if he kisses her now, she'll melt into him, tear him open. His hands are twice as big as hers, his fingers long and graceful and dexterous. One hand fits halfway around her waist. He could destroy her in every meaning of the word, and she _wants_ — she  _needs_. Her breasts are swollen, her legs shaking and hips arched from this brutal desire. He doesn't miss a thing. His eyes trace her body, he wets his lips, like he's _preparing_ , like he's  _ready._ His certainty snaps her back to reality.

"It's not impossible," she says hollowly.

"Not impossible," he repeats.

"No, I meant..." she swallows. "It's not impossible to love two people at the same time."

Draco leans down and rests his forehead on hers. It's more intimate than a kiss, more tender than words can describe. Tears are streaming down Hermione's face, but she swipes at her face fiercely. "But this is wrong," she says, closing her eyes, savoring this final touch. "I can't see you again. You need help, Draco. You need to get treatment. You need to stop drinking and lying and hurting the people who love you. I can't see you. I just _can't,_ do you understand? I care about you too much to watch you do this to yourself. "

She feels his sharp inhale. "No," he begins, but she leans up and kisses him on the cheek, lightly, mournfully. His lashes shutter and he falls silent. "Goodbye, Draco," she says. "Don't come back."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She tells Ron everything — how can she not?

Ron strokes her hair and doesn't make any snide remarks, which is impressive. Instead, Ron says quietly, "He's being cruel, don't you think?"

She swallows, her throat dry and choked from all the crying she's been doing lately. "Cruel? No. He's _good_ , he is, he's just lost."

"It's not your job to help him," Ron says. "Not to sound like the underwritten friend from a romantic comedy, but you can't fix people, 'Mione. That's not, like, a thing. If you get a physical cut, your cells will regenerate and all that gross biology stuff. But mental cuts aren't tangible, so they don't really grow back. You just learn to live with them, like losing a limb or something."

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. "Since when were you so poetic?"

Ron grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Lee has that effect, I think. He reads a lot. Too much. Like you."

"So you think Draco can't get better?"

"Oh, he can get better. He can go sober, it's been done before, y'know. But what's in here," Ron taps his skull, "isn't going to get less fucked-up. Is that what you really want? Someone you have to take care of all the time?"

When Hermione doesn't answer right away, he says, "Just get him to knock you up if you want a child."

She smacks him with the sofa cushion and screams when he presses his elbow into her stomach, right where she's the most ticklish. "Ron, don't," she warns, but he's already nudging her sides and she kicks her legs trying to get away and exposes the bottom of her feet, which Ron takes as an opening and lunges for. She prods at his leg. Although Ron is tall and gangly, years of basketball have built up muscle. He's heavier than she expected, and she feels her ribs being crushed as he tickles her sides.

 _"Ronald_ ," she wheezes, and Pansy walks in, kicking off her heels, and says, "I thought he was gay."

Ron sticks his chin out and squints at her. "I _literally_ a have boyfriend." 

"Good for you," Pansy says. "Want a gold star?"

"You are a _bitch_ , aren't you?" he says, a bit disbelievingly. "I know you have that whole mean cheerleader thing going on, but — _Jesus_."

"Misogynist," she snaps.

"Vulture."

"Hag."

"Prick."

"Demon."

Hermione wriggles out from under Ron and says, "You done?"

Pansy snorts. "Keep your dog on a leash, Hermione."

Ron legitimately tries to _lunge_ at her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

That night, Hermione gets a phone call. It's an unknown number, but she answers anyway. 

"Don't hang up," someone says in a desperate whisper. It's a low, male voice. She feels a rush of anticipation that uncoils through her body down to her toes. 

"Draco?"

"Talk to me," he pleads. "Say anything you want. Tell me about your day. Just talk to me."

"One condition," Hermione says before she loses her courage. It's late enough that she's not thinking straight. Calling isn't technically seeing. It's a bit less painful. It means she can still talk to him. She's being selfish. She's doing this for the greater good.

"Yes?"

"You're going to the AA meetings Pansy signed you up for."

A pause. She hears him exhale heavily. "Okay," he says finally.

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

"This is fucked," she says.  

His laugh is dry. "So are we."


End file.
